Oil On Canvas
by dimpleforyourthoughts
Summary: post 8x10 Wincest, a little bit fluffy, a little bit angsty, a little bit smutty. "They make it through three rounds of the boxing match and two bowls of chili before Sam shoves his hand down Dean's pants."


**Author's Note: Written for the prompt Wincest, post 8x10 slow makeup sex. This does get a bit graphic, so if smut is not your thing, please step back from this fic. **

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They make it through three rounds of the boxing match and two bowls of chili before Sam shoves his hand down Dean's pants.

Not necessarily a record speed for them, but definitely a surprise, seeing as they've said all of two words to each other since Sam came in with a bag of groceries in one hand and the stolen keys to the Impala in the other. Pre-dinner conversation had been awkward and stilted, during-dinner conversation even more so. Dean hadn't been expecting in-flight entertainment or anything, but Sam was quiet as all get out and Dean was starting to feel sicker with each bite of chili because _what if Sam changes his mind. _What if Sam says "Just kidding" and leaves in the morning for a woman that Dean has never even met? What if Sam chooses someone who cares for Sam, who can love him _and _give him all the things that Dean can't?

Dean frets on this throughout the boxing game and throughout the dinner. But—as it turns out—Sam was not thinking of Amelia or of leaving.

In fact, if the way he's pushing Dean down into the lumpy sofa and groping is any indication, the words 'leaving' and 'Amelia' are the words farthest from what Sam has been thinking about the last few hours.

"Sam, jesus," Dean mumbles in to Sam's mouth over the blaring TV, "Take it easy will you?"

Sam's all but deaf, tugging at Dean's fly and mouthing at Dean's neck and if it were any other circumstances, any other random chick, any other person in the world, Dean would be on board and ready to rev in three seconds flat. But this is Sam and that means this isn't just a one night stand. Especially after what just happened. Especially after all that they've been through and all that they've given up to come back to this.

"It's been months Dean, _months." _Sam pants, and if his tongue dips into the hollow of Dean's throat and lavishes at his pulse point, Dean ignores it. Or tries, at least.

Yeah, it has been months, Dean concedes. And the way that Sam's fingers are sweeping up under Dean's shirt to circle at the dimples in his back, well, that's not exactly helping Dean in his evidence for why this is not a good idea. Leave it to Dean to cock block the whole situation with the one person in his life who is usually the cock block to begin with. Yet Dean knows what happens when Sam gets like this, gets rough and fast and demands gratification yet won't even look Dean in the eyes. And as appealing as this is right now—with boxing blaring through the speakers and lumpy couch cushions beneath them—Dean's gonna take the moral high ground on this one and stop.

Or at least try.

"Sam, c'mon." Dean pleads, voice only a little breathless, shoving at Sam's shoulders. "You don't want this, man."

Sam unlatches from Dean's neck and sits up, looking pissed and hurt and a whole other assortment of things that Dean doesn't want to touch with a ten foot pole.

"I don't want this?" Sam snaps incredulously, eyes narrowing and cheeks heated. "I'm here, aren't I Dean?"

As if Sam being here just makes everything honkey dorey again. Dean can wish that things worked that way, but he knows well enough by now that he and his brother rather have a knack for stowing crap that crops up later to bite them in the ass at the worst of times. It's a tough choice. Work out your problems, or have rough sex on the questionable looking shag carpet. Kiss and makeup, or fuck out your problems like angry bunnies.

Oddly enough, neither option is looking completely appetizing. Which means, as always, it's time to mix and match, time to improvise.

Dean's got a plan. He's an idiot and Sam's probably gonna either laugh or kick his ass or both when he figures it out, but Dean's got a plan and he's jumping in headfirst.

"Not here. C'mon," Dean grabs Sam's wrist, "Bedroom."

Sam's eyes spark and he gives Dean a nod that clearly says 'Now _that's _more like it'.

Incidentally, getting to the bedroom is not as easy as it looks. It takes a good five minutes to cover a distance of less than fifteen feet, as they make quite a few stops on the way to give hickies and fiddle with zippers and worry at each other's lips and grope and grind like stupid horny teenagers. By the time they make it to the bed, by the time Sam's stripped Dean of his shirt and jeans and is wriggling out of his own jeans, Dean's having a hard time recalling what exactly his plan was, especially as Sam gets a hand on his cock underneath his boxers and strokes in a way that should be outlawed, pressing him in to the mattress and laying atop of him. That slow slip drag and pull makes Dean gasp something that sounds like "Sammy" as his lashes flutter against Sam's cheek. Every cell in his body is screaming to bend Sam over and fuck him hard and fast and be done with it.

But at the same time there's this weird sense of peace spreading through him that makes him want to stop everything. No, not stop. Hold. Hold this moment and all the moments after and just exist in this quiet space with nothing but Sam and the sense that eventually, everything's gonna be alright. Dean wants to remember this, remember their first night back together after over a year, after Purgatory, after Amelia, after everything and everything that deepened the chasm between the driver and the shotgun of the Impala sitting parked outside. It's corny, but Dean wants it. Needs it.

And he knows that Sam needs it too.

When Dean pulls away slightly and removes his brother's hand slowly from his boxers, Sam's eyes meet his with a quizzical "What are you doing?' expression without saying the actual words. Sam's not expecting this, whatever this is. Sure, a little teasing and holding out in the beginning was a given, because it was Sam and it was Dean and it was sex with Sam and Dean. But Sam had probably figured it was just an act, just Dean being a dumb ass and a tease.

But Dean pulls away from Sam and just looks at him, and Sam is clearly to tempted to not ask, especially as Dean slowly turns them over, Sam looking confused as Dean lays him back, gently, against the mattress.

"Dean, what the hell are you doing?" Sam asks, something a little short of worry creeping in to his tone.

"What I'm doing is called make up sex." Dean responds in kind, matching his hips perfectly with Sam's own, frotting in an agonizingly unhurried pace against him through their boxers, the lines of their cocks catching and dragging against one another and sending them both gasping.

"Make up sex?" Sam's voice is high, reedy; he clearly has other matters to worry about.

"Yep." Dean rolls his hips again, and it's so fucking hot and he could probably blow his load right here right now and not regret it once, he's already that fucking hard. He's pretty sure Sam's on the same page, judging by the way his finger tips press into Dean's back, is if those finger tips alone will encourage Dean to keep going, keep dipping and rolling and dragging his mouth along Sam's pulse.

"Why?" Sam intones, clearly irritated as much as he is aroused, eyes closed and panting.

Dean pulls back after that question, cool air rushing between their bodies as he pushes up from the mattress, so Sam chases after him until he realizes that Dean's not fucking around, and opens his eyes.

Dean answers by ducking down and pulling off Sam's boxers in one fell swoop. He leans into Sam, leans into the scent and tang that is his little brother, leans into those gangly limbs and tanned skin that sometimes still looks coltish, like Sam still has growing and filling out to do in some places. He looks up into his little brothers eyes, and Sam is staring down at him; guarded, wary, turned on.

"Because I'm sorry," Dean says simply, muttering the words into the groove of Sam's hip bone, mouthing along the line of his dick.

"For what?" Sam keens, hips twisting up to try and get Dean to do something—anything—more than what he's doing right now. But Dean's having none of it. With a grin he claps both hands on Sam's belly and slams him down on the mattress.

"Anything. Everything. I think I started a list a while back, if you really want a full recap." Dean winces around the light hearted joke. He thinks Sam does too.

"Look," he starts over again, and Sam's actually paying attention, "I think we need this. Just for one night. We need to reconcile. We need slow. I just….I think it'll help. With everything."

And maybe if they were on good terms, or felt as if they were on the same wavelength, they wouldn't need this. The two of them, they've never been ones for sappy confessions or emotional talks. But something about the way Sam is looking at Dean, gaze glossy from arousal and something else, something more, that indicates to Dean that this _is _the time for words. Because Sam needs it.

And yeah. Maybe because Dean needs it too.

Sam nods, intense and conceding, but cautious. Dean gets to work on the whole 'make-up' thing.

He murmurs apologies in between wet and suckling kisses, each apology taking form in the purpling welts that track up Sam's thighs to his hipbones to his ribcage, marks that read _Dean_. Sorry. Kiss. Sorry. Lick. Sorry. Bite. His words are light, soft and he wonders if Sam can even hear them, especially with the way Sam's fingers are clenching on Dean's shoulders, so tight Dean isn't entirely sure if he's trying to pull him close or push him away. His words are honest, truthful, and he hopes Sam is listening because he can barely get them out himself.

I'm sorry about the phone call.

I'm sorry for being mad at you.

I'm sorry for trusting Benny over you.

I'm sorry that you were alone.

I'm sorry for_ leaving_ you alone.

These are the words that are uttered in to the sweet and slick of Sam Winchester's skin, a skin tossed to hell and pulled from hell and tortured from the inside out. Sam's got scars, even if Dean can't see them, but in this moment Dean's determined to whisper them all away, to cover those scars with lips and teeth and tongue and maybe help carry some of those burdens that his brother has carried on his own for too long.

When he makes it up to Sam's lips, he freezes at the sight of Sam's expression, suddenly flayed wide open for Dean to see, from his hazel irises to his long lashes and Dean's never had anyone look at him the way Sam does. Like he's infuriating. Like he's exhausting. Like the sun shines ten different ways out of his ass and he's eighth world wonder.

"You—" Sam's breathing hard, and in the dim light there might be something glistening in the corner of his eye, but Dean won't be the one to call him out for it.

"Forgive me?" His smile is weak, his voice hoarse. He feels exhausted, and they haven't even gotten past the foreplay.

Sam's answer comes in the form of a kiss, slow and heady and wet and utterly fucking mind robbing in the sense that he's nearly dizzy after a few seconds. It's the first time in months he's tasted Sam, really and truly tasted Sam. It's different from how he remembers, just slightly; Sam tastes like chili and beer and spearmint gum and a little bit of gunpowder in the midst of it all. It's a taste Dean wants to bottle and brew and have in his mouth forever.

"I'll take that as a yes," Dean grins into the kiss, and he can hear the sound of Sam rolling his eyes but he can also feel the reciprocated grin against his lips as well.

What happens next may take hours, days, weeks, but Dean's really keeping track because he's got Sam's hands in his hair and Sam's taste in his mouth. And then he's got Sam's cock in his mouth, spit slick and a little bitter and Sam's rolling his hips with it and just trying to keep it slow, keep it paced, because they need this.

It's not really until Dean get's the lube, get's one then two then three fingers working in and out of Sam's ass, that things truly do start to get a bit frenzied. Sam's clawing at the mattress, trying to keep his hips still, keep the friction minimal, trying to keep it together, and Dean's muttering about how good he is, how good he's gonna treat him, how good he's gonna feel.

It's all just so _good. _That's the only word Dean can use to describe it.

Dean's not one to wax dirty poetic, but if he were he'd probably say that he's never seen something as pretty as Sam's pink mouth and the high flush on his chest and the way his eye lashes are fluttering like broken window shutters. He'd probably say that Sam looks good with his fingers in his ass, that Sam looks good on anything, in any circumstances, on any day. He'd say that Sam is his earth sun moon stars and goddamn gravity. He'd say it all, all the meanwhile fucking Sam with his fingers while Sam moans and rolls his hips like a cresting wave on the mattress.

You know, if Dean were the kind of pansy that actually said those sorts of things.

In the midst of all this 'taking it slow' they've been doing neither of them remembered to grab a condom, and like hell Dean's leaving Sam like _this. _Sam mutters something about Dean being an idiot and licks a stripe up Dean's neck and Dean curses something fierce and tells Sam to shut his damn mouth or he'll shut it for him.

They're empty threats and insults, Dean knows this. Just two brothers who think they're funny. But as he lines up his red and pulsing dick with his brother's ass, there ceases to be anything funny about this situation whatsoever. Sam tenses, looks up at Dean, inhales, exhales, and nods.

Dean pushes, edges in to Sam, gritting his teeth against the feral growl that tears up his spine as Sam just opens for him, rim closing around the crown of his cock so hard that if Dean weren't up to his ears in the sweet puppy noises and moans that Sam is uttering, he would swear he hears a hallelujah chorus. They've done this a lot, more times than Dean can count, but for all the tight and searing heat of Sam's ass clamping on Dean's cock, it may as well be the very first time.

"You good?" Dean asks, and if there's a breathless quality to his voice that makes him sound like a swooning maiden, well, at least Sam's too busy getting a cock in his ass to notice it.

"Fucking hell Dean," Sam breathes back, and in the shitty lighting of the cabin there's a blaze about Sam's tanned skin, a sheen among the toned muscle that Dean wants to sink his teeth into and lick up and never let go of. His mouth hangs slightly open as he focuses on breathing, eyes focused on the ceiling, possibly because he'll lose it completely if he so much as looks at Dean. It strikes Dean that this is probably the weirdest fucking image to maybe ever grace the planet, but at the same time he's kind of wishing someone could paint it, photograph it, preserve it.

Two codependent brothers fucking: oil on canvas.

He has to admit, it's got a nice ring to it.

"Dean," Sam's got a bitch face and a half on, looking bored, "I know you're doing the slow girly crap tonight, but I'm gonna fall asleep if you don't get to fucking me soon enough."

And it's just like Sam to make a snarky comment like that, just like Sam to pretend that Dean's cock in his ass is no big deal because he's Dean's little brother and from day one he always tried to one up Dean, always tried to show that he could take whatever Dean wanted to give him, to prove that he could run, fight, yell, shoot, keep up with Dean despite their years of age difference and experience. It's so typical little brother, so typical Sam, that if Dean is torn between a laugh and a sob because Jesus Christ the sound of Sam's petulant tone is so sweet, so damn saccharine on Dean's ears.

Dean lean's forward, still buried inside Sam, still not moving an inch, and brushes his lips against Sam's briefly. Sam responds in kind, but he's needy, whiny in a way that only Sam can be, rolling his hips and sighing in irritation when Dean continues to brush his lips in a slow back in forth motion, barely touching Sam's own lips.

And then Dean pulls out, and drives home.

If he thought Sam's sounds and speech were sweet before, it's nothing compared to the strangled moan that escapes from Sam's mouth now, stifled as Dean licks it out of his mouth. Dean rotates his hips slowly, spiraling in a way that means only one thing and the second he hits that one thing Sam yanks his head away from Dean to press back into the pillow, eyes and pupils alike blown wide with arousal and that same strangled moan galloping free of his gasping mouth.

Dean grins. He can't help it. He and Sam have always been competitive in bed, that sort of cat-and-mouse-slash-race-you-to-the-finish-line game that drives them both fucking crazy but neither one of them will chicken out because it's so damn _good. _But now he's taking it slow, making Sam work for it and its _delicious_. He could go on like this for hours. For days.

Sam's an incoherent mesh of breathy gasps and wet mouth on Dean's neck. Dean inhales and he notices with a pang that Sam doesn't smell like Dean remembers at that makes Dean want to claw through Sam's insides and take take _take_ and make Sam his again.

One year. One fucking _year_ they spent worlds apart. And even once they were back on even ground they still spent six months with all this shit between them. And for what? Dean looks down at his little brother, his little brother who is biting his lip and begging as Dean fucks slowly into him, begging for more and faster and begging to feel it tomorrow. Maybe he's not saying the words aloud, but it's in the way he's looking at Dean, that once again raw and flawed open expression that Dean catches for the second time. The expression warms him, sharp permafrost of Purgatory melting and melting until he truly realizes that he's been a year without that warmth. A year without Sam.

Something crumbles in Dean, something that was stretched taught and hidden behind months in purgatory and days spent not touching his brother. Dean's dam breaks, this hot mess of possessiveness taking over and with a snap his hips Dean is pounding in to Sam. The time for slow and soothing is over, because Sam is keening and Dean is desperate to prove to both of them that this is real, that they are real, and come Amelia or Benny or Cas or anyone one else on this fucking planet, that it will always just be them at the end of the day. Just them.

And it's now, with Dean pumping in and out of Sam and Sam clinging to Dean like he's a lifeline that Sam starts to apologize. Dean doesn't know how he's doing it, because Dean's hitting his sweet spot every time and he can barely keep up himself. But Sam somehow manages his own apologies, in between licks and pets on Dean's throat and lower back that have Dean cursing up a blue streak. Sam's words are breathy, interspersed with gasps and moans and 'Yes please fuck's that Dean takes a sign that he's still got this down pat. Sam's words are mixed with sex and sin Dean's listening to them like they're gospel.

I'm sorry I didn't look for you.

I'm sorry for my mistakes.

I'm sorry that you were alone.

I'm sorry for _leaving_ you alone.

On the final gasped apology that Dean finally loses any and all control he previously had, grabbing Sam's wrist as they scrabble for purchase and slamming them against the mattress and pillows, effectively pinning his older brother underneath him. They're not two brothers, but instead one dark whirl of bites and moans and scratching nails. It's been so long and they need it to hurt a little to be real. Dean can't feel Sam until he can _feel _Sam, biting Dean's collar bone and writhing like a livewire under Dean as he gets closer and closer to the edge that they're both caterwauling towards.

Dean slams and slams into Sam, swallowing his every noise as Sam locks eyes with him, and he's so close, Dean can see it in the way his pupils dilate and the way his eyelids flutter every few seconds. He's not making so much as noise anymore as he is just gasping silently, obscene wet mouth choked around words and phrases that Dean would kill to hear.

But Sam's so close now that Dean can taste it in the sweat and spit that permeates his taste buds. So Dean gets one hand on Sam's dripping cock, swiping his thumb over the head and smearing the pearly beads of pre-come jerks once, twice, three times, and leans forward to his face in the crook of Sam's neck so that his lips are right on Sam's ear, touching oh so lightly to the lobe as he whispers, chokes, breathes: "Missed this. Missed you."

Sam comes with one last gasp, hips pistoning against Dean, mouth opening and closing around frozen breaths and hands grabbing at any part of Dean they can touch, finally fastening with a vice like grip on Dean's hips as Sam meets Dean's ever continuing thrusts and spurts thick streaks of come over their bellies, warm and wet and fucking hell if it isn't the most erotic thing Dean's ever seen.

Dean thinks he's done, but Sam's gone and surprised him again, flipping them over and sinking down on to Dean with every intention of making his big brother come apart beneath him, riding with snaps of his hips as he bites his lip and encourages Dean with every move he makes. Sam knows what Dean likes, knows that Dean likes to see the roll of hips and the jump of pulse and the flex of muscle, knows that Dean's all about the little things. Sam knows what Dean likes, and he knows how to use that to make Dean come hard, how to drag it out and make Dean come over so close to the edge before taking a few steps back and then jerking him back close to the edge once more. There's a slow and steady and fucking torturous burn that thrums throughout Dean's body, and he's half tempted to tell Sam to keep going, to keep fucking and keening and dragging it out because this, _this, _Sam riding and sweating and panting above Dean, this is the closest that Dean will ever come to heaven again, he's sure of it.

But then Sam leans forward, the smallest of smiles on his face as he looms over Dean, brushing his lips over Dean's own, locking eyes with Dean so green meets hazel and neither one of them dares look away, even as Dean's own eyes threaten to melt in their sockets with the sheer fucking pleasure racketing from his dick to the very tips of every finger and toe on his body. Sam leans forward, kisses Dean like he used to when they were kids and Dean had yet to tell him he was too old for that stuff, leans forward and sighs into Dean's lips, "Missed this. Missed you."

And Dean comes with a shout that punches out of him, a shout that Sam swallows and covers with his own lips and tongue. Dean comes up into the slick and heat that is his baby brother, comes so hard he's seeing stars and he's pretty sure that his heart stops for a few solid seconds. Sam rides it out with him, biting his lip and occasionally biting Dean's lips as well, looking torn between moaning and laughing as Dean shivers and jerks and fucks the last of his orgasm out.

They settle afterwards, and in the post-coital senselessness Dean is babbling, brassy and boasting and pressing the gentlest of kisses to Sam's forehead as he cards his fingers through Sam's hair. Sam's hair is longer, so much longer, Dean notes with wonderment, vaguely recalling a twenty two year old kid with worn out hoodies and floppy hair.

"How's _that_ for mind blowing make up sex?" Dean's haha-look-at-me-sex-god-I'm-so-cocky smile all but glows in the dark. He hopes that Sam can see it.

"I've had worse," Sam shrugs with a haha-you-think-you're-so-cool-but-really-you're-just-an-idiot quirk of his lips, and gasps again as Dean's warm and cum-tacky hand slides lazily around Sam's cock, just to prove his own damn point. Sam's toes dig in to Dean's shin in retaliation and he tries to gouge the air out of Dean's stomach, but both are half hearted, and he eventually settles for draping over Dean like a wet noodle as a means of retaliation, all long limbs and sweat scent and Dean can't help but laugh, a sound that rings loud and true in the cabin.

"You're incorrigible." Sam huffs, lips somewhere near Dean's pulse point and teeth scraping lightly a few seconds later. It's been a long time since they've been like this, loose limbed and bantering away at nothing in particular.

"And you're whiny." It's nice to know that if anything, some things never chance.

Sam exhales in a yawn, content to curl around his older brother in response, and his breath feels good on Dean's collar bone. Happy. Familiar. Close.

And come what may, come demons or hellfire or vampires or ex-girlfriends or God himself, that's how Dean plans on keeping Sam from now on:

Happy. Familiar. Close.

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**REVIEWS MUCH APPRECIATED!**


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